Detained, Aftermath
by drewbug
Summary: A post-ep for "Detained" that picks up immediately at the episode's end. As told by Trip. H/C


Detained, Aftermath

by Nicole Clevenger

He collapsed in the shuttle on the way back to Enterprise.

He'd just been answering Travis's question about the Suliban prisoners. "Do I think they'll be okay?" That long pause at the end there spoke plenty.

And then I hear Malcolm say, "Captain?" and see Jon start to slump forward over the controls. Malcolm grabs one arm and I'm there as soon as I can get out of my seat. Why I got stuck riding behind everyone I don't know. Shoulda called shotgun.

His eyes were open -- unfocused, but open -- when I came around the center seat. Kinda tried to shake Malcolm off and sat back heavily. I got a better look at him then than I'd had before, on the planet. All there'd been time for then was a quick land-and-grab, getting our men onto the shuttle before Hoshi's blocking signal gave up.

But now that I had a breathing minute, I could see the dark bruises that were still forming on his face, even though the blood looked to have dried hours ago. One of his eyes was swollen half-shut. I couldn't see the rest of him, but I definitely noticed the way he was holding his elbows in close to his body. My bet was on busted ribs.

True to form, he insisted he was all right. Tired, he said. Now I sure believe that just looking at him, but I wasn't fool enough to think that that was the only thing wrong. 'Course I said so.

The crooked smile he flashed was supposed to be convincing, I'm sure. "Trip, I'm fine," he said. "I didn't get much sleep in isolation."

I shot at glance Travis's way, hoping he'd explain that one, but the kid was suddenly looking down at his hands like he'd never seen such things before. I had no idea what went on down on that planet, but I could already tell it wasn't real good.

"Sir, if I may?" Malcolm, very proper and British even under all that bumpy yellow skin, offering to take the pilot's seat. And Jon just rubs his eyes and half shrugs, tells Malcolm to take us home. Which scares me more than anything else. Jon rarely admits to weakness.

So they switched places, and Malcolm flew us back. I had my eyes on Jon the whole time. Poor Malcolm had to wait to get that itchy skin off, since the Doc practically jumped on Travis and Jon the second they climbed out of the shuttle. Travis looked pretty beat up too. I guess I hadn't really noticed before, on account of Jon.

Anyway, the Doc says they're both fine, all considering. Travis has a bunch of bumps and bruises; Jon's got that plus the broken ribs and a bit of a concussion. Sends them both off to bed for at least a duty shift.

Big surprise: Jon doesn't go for that. Sure, he nodded and agreed like the most obedient patient in the galaxy. Except when he left the Sickbay, he didn't head straight to his quarters.

If the Doc knew Jon as well as I do, he'd have known where he was headed. Didn't matter how tired or hurting he was, Jon wasn't about to rest without taking a look in on things. He'd been off the ship for days, which was way too long to be away from where you belong. 

So we went on a shipwalk. I'd been on a few of these before; as far as I knew, Jon had been doing them pretty much every night since we've been out here. I followed him as we went slowly from department to department, impressed every time I watched him pull himself up with as deep a breath as he could muster. His face would brighten with that familiar smile, and we'd walk in to the room like all was right as rain. I'd hang around in the background while he talked to the on duty crew members. You could see how happy they were to be talking to their Captain, downright honored that he came by to listen to what they had to say.

I kept expecting him to turn to me and say, "Trip, don't you have something better to do?" or even, "Trip, quit following me." You know, try to get rid of me. But maybe he realized how much I needed to be with him, to reassure myself that he was really okay. He wasn't the only one who hadn't slept much lately.

Seemed like it was getting harder and harder for him to pretend that everything was peachy each time we stopped. When we came out of Waste Reclamation, he swayed drunkenly, and I thought he might pass out right there in the corridor.

'Course, once again he tried to pass it off as just being over-tired, but I saw how he was holding though ribs. I cracked a couple of ribs once, skiing. Two things I can tell you about that: One, hurts like hell. Two, a Southern boy has no business up on skis.

Anyway, I hustled him back to his quarters before I had to explain to the Doc or T'Pol or the boys from W.R. what their Captain was doing face-down on the carpet instead of in his bed where he was supposed to be. Didn't even argue with me, either. I think maybe he was half-asleep already.

The next day I stopped by the Bridge. Jon's sitting there in the command chair like it's business as usual, even though his eye's nearly swollen shut and he's got a fat lip almost double normal size. I hung around for a bit, got a little work done and tried like everybody else to pretend I didn't notice the pained winces every time he shifted in his chair.

So things go on like this for several days. The swelling and general black-and-blueness of his face fades away, but now there's these dark smudges under his eyes like he hasn't been sleeping much. I tried once or twice to get him to tell me what was going on, but he made it pretty damn clear that I should mind my own business. Shut himself up in his office for hours -- which is, by the way, always a sure sign that something's wrong.

When I finally find out what's up, it's completely by accident. I'd been working on the Bridge again, and it had come time for us to go off shift. Jon and I ended up in the turbolift at the same time, just me and him. At first it's real quiet, then Jon turns to me and asks if I want to take a walk.

After his self-imposed solitude of the last couple of days, I'm surprised to hear him ask for my company. But I say "Sure," figuring maybe he'll tell me what's been going on. We walked to one of the smaller observation lounges. Convinced Jon we should sit and admire the view without too much effort. To be honest, he looked about ready to fall asleep on his feet.

We sat there for a good long while, watching those beautiful stars and talking about nothing in particular. Jon's responses start getting sorta vague, with longer spaces in between, until at one point I glance over to see that he's out in the chair.

I'm leaning back in my own chair, grinning at the view and patting myself on the back a little for a job well done. And then Jon starts hollering like he's being held down by a whole mess of Klingons.

Now, I've seen Jon face down guys that made him look short in comparison, without so much as a blink. I've watched him handle things since we've been out here that most men would have balked at. Hell, the fact that he's out here at all proves that Jonathan Archer is no coward.

All that said, when he opened his unfocused eyes, I saw fear there. Then it was gone, quick as can be, pushed away to wherever that man hides those sorts of things. But it had been there. And that... aw hell, that made my stomach knot up in a way that I'm not sure I even want to think about.

Jon starts to talk again -- all low and toneless, like he's reading from a script or something. Apparently those aliens down on that planet didn't take too kindly to his interference in their little prison camp. So they held him down and beat the shit out of him, right before they threw him in the sensory deprivation that they called "isolation." And, just as they were swinging that big, heavy door shut on him, they told him that next they were going after Travis. 

He was in there almost twenty-four hours, near as he could tell. Stuck in a tiny, pitch-black box, half-delirious with pain and hunger, imagining what they were doing to poor Travis. Turns out Travis's only beating came before Jon got dumped in his little cell, but the threat was more than effective. And, for the last few days, every time he's tried to sleep, he's back there. Helpless. Alone. Hurting.

He told me all this, and I just sat there, listening, while my hands went into tighter and tighter fists until my shorter-than-nothing fingernails were digging into my skin. He needed someone to listen. So I listened.

But it was a damn lucky thing for those bastards down on that planet that we were headed in the other direction.

end

2002 


End file.
